There is a curious superstition among civilized men that certain crimes are almost respectable if they are committed politely.
The English gentleman who cheats at cards is despised; but the English gentleman who steals jewels with elegance is sometimes admired. The difference is not moral but theatrical. The card cheat looks vulgar. The jewel thief looks interesting.
This illusion produced one of the most charming criminals in English literature.
And one of the most patient priests.
Tonight we begin a new Chesterton Radio Theatre series: Father Brown vs. Raffles — The Morality of the Gentleman Thief.
In this first episode we meet the celebrated cricketer and amateur cracksman Arthur J. Raffles, the creation of E. W. Hornung.
We also meet the quiet priest who understands criminals better than policemen do — Father Brown, created by G. K. Chesterton.
Their meeting begins, as many curious things do, with a dinner party.
I. The Man Everyone Admired
London society loved Arthur Raffles.
It loved him with that unthinking affection which fashionable society reserves for men who appear to succeed without effort. Raffles possessed the rarest and most dangerous of charms: he seemed to take life as lightly as a feather takes the wind.
He was known first as a cricketer, and cricket in England is one of the few occupations which can make a man respectable even when the rest of his character remains a mystery. At Lord’s he batted with an elegance that made the crowd murmur approvingly. In drawing rooms he spoke with a wit that made hostesses forgive his irregular appearances.
There was nothing ostentatious about him.
He did not appear ambitious.
He merely appeared fortunate.
And fortune is the most flattering quality a man can possess.
But Arthur Raffles had discovered a secret that most fortunate men never learn.
The world, he believed, was not merely a place to live in.
It was a puzzle.
And puzzles, once noticed, must be solved.
II. Bunny Manders Begins His Confession
My name is Bunny Manders.
If I am to tell this story honestly, I must begin by admitting that I admired Arthur Raffles before I understood him.
Indeed I admired him so much that I mistook admiration for loyalty, and loyalty for wisdom.
The first time I met him was at Lord’s during a match that seemed to have attracted half the English aristocracy and most of the champagne in London. Raffles stood in the pavilion with the relaxed confidence of a man who knew that the afternoon would eventually arrange itself around his success.
He held his bat loosely in one hand.
He laughed easily.
He did not appear to care whether he won or lost.
Which was precisely why he always seemed to win.
It was several months later that I discovered he played another game besides cricket.
And that game was burglary.
III. The Conversation That Changed Everything
It was the fifteenth of March when he first invited me to his rooms with a seriousness that suggested mischief.
The evening was one of those grey London nights in which the fog lies low along the streets like a tired ghost unwilling to depart. Gas lamps glowed dimly through the mist, and carriages moved past like dark animals moving through water.
Raffles sat in a deep armchair with a cigarette between his fingers and the calm expression of a man who had recently discovered an amusing idea.
“Bunny,” he said, “have you ever noticed how careless rich men are with their possessions?”
I laughed.
“Careless? They lock everything.”
“Yes,” said Raffles cheerfully. “But they lock them very badly.”
I stared at him.
“You can’t mean—”
“My dear Bunny,” he replied, “I mean precisely what you think I mean.”
He spoke without the slightest embarrassment.
He might have been describing a cricket strategy.
“I am not a criminal,” he added mildly. “I am a critic of architecture.”
IV. Raffles Explains His Philosophy
“You see,” he continued, rising and strolling toward the window, “the modern house is a monument to optimism. Men build enormous rooms, fill them with treasures, and then secure them with locks that a moderately intelligent schoolboy could defeat.”
“And your solution?”
“To demonstrate the error.”
I stared at him.
“By stealing their property?”
“Borrowing it,” he corrected.
Then he smiled.
“Temporarily.”
I began to feel that peculiar mixture of dread and excitement which accompanies the realization that one’s friend is both charming and insane.
“You treat burglary like a sport,” I said.
Raffles shrugged lightly.
“Why not? The world treats everything else like one.”
V. The Dinner Invitation
Our destination that night was the house of Lord Amersteth in Mayfair.
Lord Amersteth possessed two qualities which make a man irresistible to burglars: he was wealthy, and he enjoyed telling people about it.
His collection of rare objects had become famous among London hostesses. Paintings, manuscripts, jewelry, antique boxes — each object carried a story, and Lord Amersteth told every story with equal enthusiasm.
Among these treasures was a small Renaissance jewel box.
It was worth a fortune.
And it rested in a study cabinet protected by a lock which Raffles examined with the affectionate interest of a watchmaker examining a toy.
VI. Society After Dinner
Dinner ended with the agreeable confusion that follows good wine and too many anecdotes.
The ladies moved to the drawing room.
The gentlemen drifted into groups discussing politics, travel, and the alarming condition of modern society — which English gentlemen have been discussing with alarm since at least the Norman Conquest.
A string quartet began playing softly.
Raffles leaned toward me.
“Observe, Bunny.”
“What?”
“The moment.”
I looked around.
Nothing appeared unusual.
Which was precisely the point.
VII. The Disappearance
Raffles rose from his chair and wandered casually toward the door.
He did not hurry.
He did not glance about nervously.
He simply left the room with the quiet confidence of a man who knew that no one had the slightest reason to suspect him.
I waited several minutes before following.
The corridor was empty.
The study door stood slightly open.
Inside, Raffles knelt before the cabinet like a priest before a reliquary.
VIII. The Art of Opening Locks
He worked with extraordinary calm.
The lock yielded almost immediately to a small instrument which appeared from nowhere and disappeared again just as mysteriously.
Thirty seconds later the cabinet door opened.
Inside rested the Renaissance jewel box.
Raffles lifted it gently.
He examined it with a craftsman’s admiration.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
I could not help thinking he admired the box more than the jewels.
Then a voice spoke behind us.
IX. The Priest in the Corridor
“Good evening.”
We turned.
A small priest stood beneath the corridor lamp.
He had a round, rather ordinary face and the mild expression of a man who had wandered into the wrong room by accident.
But his eyes were curious.
Very curious.
Raffles inclined his head politely.
“Good evening, Father.”
The priest nodded.
“I believe you are searching for something.”
“Only the study,” said Raffles smoothly.
“I appear to have lost my way.”
The priest considered this explanation with surprising seriousness.
“Yes,” he said at last.
“That often happens when men are searching for the wrong thing.”
The remark was delivered so gently that it sounded almost friendly.
Raffles bowed and walked past him.
The priest did not stop us.
X. The Theft Discovered
Half an hour later Lord Amersteth discovered that his Renaissance jewel box had vanished.
His alarm echoed through the house like the cry of a wounded antiquarian.
Guests protested innocence.
Servants were questioned.
Someone suggested calling the police.
The small priest examined the empty cabinet quietly.
Then he said something very strange.
“I fear the thief is not a wicked man.”
Lord Amersteth stared at him.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean,” said the priest softly, “that he believes himself to be a clever one.”
XI. A Conversation With Father Brown
Later that evening I found the priest standing alone in the hallway.
I felt compelled to speak to him.
“You seem very certain about the thief,” I said.
He smiled apologetically.
“Oh no,” he said. “I am rarely certain about thieves.”
“Then why say he is clever?”
“Because,” said the priest thoughtfully, “a wicked man usually knows he is wicked.”
He paused.
“But a clever man often thinks he is innocent.”
I felt an inexplicable chill.
“Who are you, Father?”
“My name is Brown.”
XII. Raffles Reflects
When we returned to his rooms, Raffles placed the jewel box on the table with quiet satisfaction.
“Well, Bunny,” he said, pouring whisky, “another successful match.”
But he seemed unusually thoughtful.
“Did you notice the priest?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you think of him?”
Raffles considered carefully.
“He is dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yes,” he said calmly.
“He is the sort of man who understands things.”
XIII. Father Brown Walks Through the Fog
At that same hour Father Brown walked slowly through the London fog.
He had seen many criminals in his life.
Some were cruel.
Some were desperate.
Some were merely foolish.
But this one was different.
This one had mistaken cleverness for innocence.
Father Brown sighed.
For he knew that such men often continued doing wrong long after other men had stopped.
But he also knew something else.
Every man could change.
Even a gentleman thief.
The priest smiled faintly.
“Well,” he said quietly to the fog.
“I suppose we shall meet again.”
Next Episode
The Chest of Silver
Arthur Raffles grows bolder.
Father Brown begins to study him.
Not merely as a criminal.
But as a soul.
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The duel between the gentleman thief and the priest who understands sin has only just begun.